


Fool's Errand

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Diarmuid in Distress, Established Relationship, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, POV Original Character, Post-Canon, Protective Diarmuid, Protective Mute, Some Humor, the inaccuracy is gay marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27733123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Post-canon, original character/outsider POV. A trio of Baron de Merville's men search for answers about the death of his son. They come across a gaggle of people farming. One young man, Diarmuid, seems rather suspicious. They try to question him.Try being the keyword. Because then Diarmuid's husband shows up.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61





	Fool's Errand

**Author's Note:**

> Just a sort of different idea I had. Could be just regular post-canon, could be set after Skin to Skin. Up to you!
> 
> As always, Diarmuid refers to the Mute as "mo grá," or, my love.
> 
> Not historically accurate and not really trying to be. A quick little fic! Enjoy!

It was a fool’s errand to begin with and only became more foolish as the months dragged on.

Baron de Merville’s soldiers ambushed and murdered by wild, pagan Irish, the relic of Saint Matthias stolen, the holy men sworn to protect it dead or disappeared into the forest.

And Raymond de Merville’s sand-covered corpse rolling in the surf, his throat bitten, mauled by some beast, surrounded by the bodies of his finest warriors and half-washed away footprints.

What had happened? Of course the baron wanted to know. His heir, maimed and dead. Those monks, beacons of light and civilization in this wild country, slain by men more near to animals. A holy relic meant for the Pope and for the betterment of Christendom disappeared.

Impossible to know for certain. A surprise attack, yes. Gilles had found Fournier in the forest, found a fallen monk among the dead, found the chieftain’s body, his face a bloody mess of meat and pulp, found the tracks left by cart—

Then the trail became muddled, murky. Obviously the attackers had covered up their tracks, but the remaining group appeared to have separated. Perhaps Raymond split the party to track the wild men, sent others along with the monks? Or had they been captured—these pious, pacifistic men—and Raymond had followed to rescue them?

Either way their paths had converged at the beach, and that was where lord de Merville met his end.

One of the bodies on the shore—a stranger to them, but a native of the area from his clothes—had obviously died from the archer’s efforts. When Purcell and Tristram found him the arrow was still in his back.

Damn Raymond. That’d made their task all the more difficult. Dugald and a few of the other surviving men had told a tale. The mute lay brother, the Cistercian, the young novice. Similar characters, similar story beats, but once separated and asked to repeat the events in detail Gilles had found the details changed and changed enough to be more than suspicious. Something didn’t add up.

And now there’d be no witnesses, no unbiased sources, because Raymond and his ilk, damn them, had gone and killed a native son, a mere ferryman who’d gotten wrapped up in whatever scheme or plot had transpired. Bad enough that incident with the poachers. He’d taken their hands and left them alive to tell their families—it stoked fury here, not fear.

_The bog_ , the Cistercian had said. _Dry the bog_. And the baron had agreed, laughing and flush with wine. But they were living in the middle of it. They needed to turn these people into their allies, their friends. Superior training and weaponry did nothing against the rain, the mist, the swamps, the deep, dark forest whose path was known only to those who’d been born on this soil, had taken their first breath and filled their lungs with this air.

A fool’s errand. Raymond de Merville had gotten overconfident, had taken the path in the Hollows and found out the type of creatures who lived there, had mucked up the task of protecting both holy relic and holy men and lost them all. It seemed obvious enough to Gilles at least.

But the mute lay brother, thought dead, was not found on the sand as expected. Nor was the little novice, who Dugald had assured him was still alive. Perhaps they had something to do with Raymond’s death. Perhaps not. Perhaps they were on the lam, as the baron seemed to think, instead of drowned beneath the sea. One thing Gilles knew for certain: they were his only lead. And so he combed the countryside for a pair of men he’d only briefly seen. At a distance. In the dark.

A man who was once a knight, a soldier among soldiers, masquerading as a mute lay brother for whatever reason, and a young man, a novice, not even a tonsured monk, who, according to camp talk, was lovely to look upon. Did they have names? No. They barely had descriptions. It was like chasing after ghosts.

* * *

Months later and there was still nothing, no sign of them. And yet Gilles resolutely lead his men on a wild goose chase across towns and villages and hamlets and places where there were more animals than men because what else was there to do?

The land was hard and unforgiving, the people doubly so, but that would be nothing compared to Baron de Merville’s ire if they returned with absolutely nothing.

Today was not so bad. The sun was shining, the sky blue and clear for once on their search, the air cool and crisp but not _cold_. And Purcell had foraged some hazelnuts and wild strawberries as they walked. Truly, a blessed day.

The group came across a plowed field, and the field was in the midst of being tending to by various people, men and women, young and old. As Gilles and his men approached the weeding and watering ceased and the villagers straightened up like shoots from the tilled soil to stare at them.

They stared back, watching the villagers watch them, both waiting for the first move. When Tristram tentatively stepped forward a number of them turned and fled toward the village.

Purcell made to go after them, the idiot, but Gilles stopped him. So they’ve run for safety or for the elders. Quite a few have stayed—the young men, perhaps certain they could provide the first line of defense should Gilles and his group prove dangerous. Suspicion lined some of their faces, yes, but more had eyes bright with curiosity. He’d take his chances.

Gilles hailed them and dismounted his horse. The small crowd glanced at one another and then came forward with all the confident swagger of youth. Well, all except one, a pretty thing, as lean and muscled as the rest, with freckled skin and long, curly brown hair and big, brown doe’s eyes. He followed slowly, warily, glancing back toward the village as if looking for someone.

“Good morning!” Gilles called and felt a bit of satisfaction at the shock on their faces. He and Tristram and Purcell knew enough Irish to communicate with the people they came across. To interrogate, if need be.

“Who’re you?” one of the young men asked. The leader, obviously, tall and tanned and blond and bold.

“Do you know of Baron de Merville?” There were puzzled glances and shakes of the head. Good. He was not a well-loved man. They were far from his estates and his protection, to be sure, but they were also safe from his reputation and better yet, that of his late son’s.

Someone piped up, “Are you the baron?” Six sets of eyes squinted at him, as if they could deduce his title from his bearing and bedraggled retinue. However, the exceptionally pretty young man merely scuffed at the dirt with his feet, a reluctant participant to the conversation.

“No, I am one of his men. We’re searching for two people. A mute lay brother and a novice. The first is a big man, strong, bearded. The second about your all’s age and—pretty.” At this last word Gilles glanced at the quiet young man. Shy, cautious, and now, blushing a little. But he did not _look_ like a monk. He looked rather like his compatriots—farmhands and apprentices all—with his slim boots and green tunic and hair that wasn’t quite as long as the others but was long enough to braid and adorn with a blue glass bead here and there. There was even a gold bangle around his wrist and a ring on one of his fingers. Gilles figured that the wanted pair would be in disguise but this did not seem to be a costume—it was lived in. And the other young men knew him besides.

But he caught Gilles’s stare and asked, in a soft but surprisingly mature, cool tone, “What are their names? These men that you seek?”

Tristram admitted, “We don’t know. Only that they are from a monastery that guarded a relic—“

“My lord,” the young man said, slowly, the slightest hint of a smile gracing his lovely face, “That describes nearly all the monasteries in Ireland.”

A fool’s errand, to be sure. His comments spur on his friends, who now pepper them with questions and advice, talking over one another.

“You _must_ have something better than that, surely.”

“The relic, what was the relic?”

“It—it was the rock that killed Saint Matthias,” Purcell stammered.

“A rock? A rock can be a relic?”

“I don’t know that story! Saint Matthias? Who is that?”

“You don’t know any saint, Ultan, your head is too fat to remember any of them.”

“Shut _up_ , you shut up, Éanna—“

Someone shouted over the din, “What clan are they from?”

Gilles gratefully grabbed hold of this question, answering, “The novice is from your people—well, not _your_ people, but from these lands. We don’t know what clan he’s from. But his companion—he pretends to be a mute lay brother, but he is really one of ours. A Norman knight. He fought at Zara and Constantinople with the late Raymond de Merville.”

The pretty young man tensed.

Interesting.

But the others continued to assail them with questions.

“Wait, he’s dead? Is that why we don’t know him?”

“No,” Gilles said, patiently, “The baron had a son. The son has been killed. The lay brother and the novice know something about it.”

“But you just said he’s not really a lay brother.”

“He’s _disguised_ as a lay brother.”

“A _fake_ mute? Diarmuid, your husband is a mute. Would he be able to tell if someone was acting?”

All eyes now turned to the quiet, pretty young man, who seemed extremely uncomfortable at the sudden attention.

Tristram asked, “Your husband is a mute?” From his tone Gilles knew he was thinking the same thing: there was a potential lead, here.

“Yes, he is,” Diarmuid said, “But he is _not_ one of your fighters. In all the time I’ve known him he has never left my side. And I have never left these lands.”

He pitched his voice gentle, soothing. “Still, it would be helpful if we met him. Talked to him. We would be grateful if we could speak to you as well. Ask you a few questions.”

This suggestion prompted a renewed wave of suspicion. The group closed ranks around Diarmuid, glaring at the three of them, chattering like squirrels.

“What? You suspect Diarmuid and his husband? That doesn’t make sense!”

“You cannot talk to a _mute_ ,” one of others, Ultan, said. “That is why they are called _mute_.” He said this in a way that conveyed that he was not surprised that Gilles and his men had yet to complete their task.

“Diarmuid cannot be a _novice._ ”

“He does not live at a _monastery_ , he lives in a _cottage_.”

“With his _husband_. Monks cannot marry.”

“Novices aren’t really monks, though.”

“That is true, but they will be monks, so they cannot marry either way.”

“We know Diarmuid, he is not a novice, he is a healer. He grows herbs, and helps us with the communal plots.” Many hands gestured to the tilled soil.

Before the conversation could get any more away from them, Gilles asked, “And what of Diarmuid’s husband?”

The young man went as pink as a ripe peach. “He does what all husbands do!” he replied, fiercely. The rest of the group burst into laughter. Perhaps it was their amusement, mistaken as mockery, that prompted Purcell’s next action, or perhaps it was exhaustion with the discussion as a whole, or perhaps it was that Purcell was really quite stupid, because then he grabbed the Diarmuid by the wrist and said, “Well, you’ll take us to him, then.”

Gilles hissed a warning but it was too little too late. Whatever goodwill they’d earned dissolved as soon as Purcell’s yanked the young man away from them. Now instead of idle chatter they cursed and screamed.

“Leave him be! Leave him be! Help! Someone!”

“They’re taking Diarmuid!”

There had been a group watching from the outskirts. Now, a number of them advanced, carrying scythes and rakes, a small army.

Christ, Gilles thought. All the able-bodied men and women of the village, it looked like. “Purcell, stop!”

Diarmuid struggled in the soldier’s grip. The little thing fought with such fury, flailing and kicking and, with a cry, raked his nails across Purcell’s face.

“Mo grá!” He wrenched himself away. “Mo grá!”

What did that mean? Mo grá—Gilles knew that phrase. Nether a swear nor prayer nor battle cry. Mo grá.

_My love_ , that was it. The young man was calling for his husband.

Oh, _fuck_ , he was calling for his husband.

Gilles whirled around. And what a husband he was. To his horror, the largest man he’d ever seen was sprinting toward them, well ahead of the others, with murderous intent clear and plain in his eyes. _What all husbands do_ , Diarmuid had said. Well, it was obvious that this husband was part ox. And probably a blacksmith, to, if the hammer in his hand was any indication of occupation. He had shaggy, dark hair, stubble, and fine, white teeth bared into a snarl.

Before he could even raise his hands in surrender the hammer was flying through the air. It struck Purcell square in the chest. There was an odd sound—that of the air leaving the man’s lungs and what as most likely a rib cracking. He fell to the ground, wheezing.

The raucous group of young men let out an equally raucous cry that had the horses rearing back as Tristram tried to hold on to their reins.

“Mo grá!” Diarmuid said, flying to the man’s arms. They embraced—it was decidedly intimate, how they held each other. _Not_ a monk and lay brother, then. It’d be a tender scene if it were not for the fact that Purcell was rolling around on the ground in pain and a number of farmhands and apprentices were yelling for their heads.

“They tried to kidnap Diarmuid!”

“There’s a dead baron—they’re looking for _murderers_.”

“No, not the baron, his son—“

“Diarmuid isn’t a killer, he’s a healer, you can’t be both!”

“A mute, my love,” Diarmuid murmured, “They are looking for a man masquerading as a mute.”

“And his companion. A pretty novice,” Tristram said. Diarmuid’s husband growled and Gilles cursed his luck, to be on a fool’s errand with fools. What had he done to deserve this?

He appealed to the pair. “A case of mistaken identity. Forgive us. Purcell was overzealous. Please, I am most sorry for the distress that we’ve caused you. It was not our intention.”

The husband glanced at Diarmuid, who, after a moment, slowly nodded. He pointed at the hammer with an expectant look. Gilles hurried to pick it up—he patted Purcell on the shoulder as he lay gasping in the dirt—and handed it back to the man. “Thank you, sir. Forgive us. A misunderstanding, this was just a misunderstanding.” A fool’s errand. “We’ll be off. As soon as possible.”

From the looks on the faces of the others, if they weren’t gone soon they’d be nothing but so much rotting detritus, like Raymond de Merville.

* * *

“He did not hurt me,” Diarmuid said in the comfort of their cottage as the Mute pressed kisses to his face. “I was frightened, but he didn’t hurt me.” A noise rumbled from the Mute’s throat. Of course the man hadn’t harmed him. If he had, he would not have lived.

Then his husband stopped. He placed his hands on Diarmuid’s hips and raised an eyebrow. The question was clear. What had he been doing, interacting with those men? It'd been quite the risk. 

Diarmuid said, “It would’ve been more suspicious if I'd left, and besides, I wanted to—to see what they knew. Which is not much at all. Just that they’re looking for a man who is not really a mute lay brother and a novice. Um, a pretty novice.”

The Mute growled in a way that sent shivers up his spine. He kissed Diarmuid again, harder, more fiercely. Possessive. His stubble scratched pleasantly at his cheek, his lips were hot against his skin.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue,” Diarmuid murmured.

His husband made an incredulous noise. He pressed Diarmuid’s palms to his chest. _Love_ , Diarmuid knew it meant, as well as _always_.


End file.
